I just started dating this gal. One of the things I like about her is that she's really, really sharp. And she pays attention.
At one point on one of our first dates I mentioned that, as an English Lit major, I studied poetry almost exclusively.
So she comes back from her vacation and shows me a book that she picked up at a junk shop - a collected works of Shelley published in the 1870's.
One of the best papers I ever wrote concerned The Cenci, Shelley's one play. It often gets excluded from collections of his stuff, so I check the table of contents; sure enough, it's in there.
I turn to the page where The Cenci begins. And there, pressed between the pages, is a four-leaf clover. Over the decades it had stained the embracing pages with a beautiful, delicate pattern - the shadow of its vitality, etched into parchment.
I'll just add this - after some of the shit I've seen in my life, I no longer believe in coincidence.